


Co-Competitors

by Omi_Smith



Series: Pwnyta's Peeps [9]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: //NOTE: Some tags are chapter specific, AU - Pwnyta, Alternate Universe, Anxiety and/or Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Murder, Blood, Drowning, Gen, Near Death, Panic and/or Panic Attacks, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Severe Injury, Stalker, Swearing, Torture, Violence, creep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Smith/pseuds/Omi_Smith
Summary: Zippo and Kreetan have known each other all their lives.  Though their dynamic didn’t allow for the presence of other Pokémon that would have been necessary if they had entered the Pokémon League together, they remain steadfast at each other’s sides.  Both fighters at heart, these two have found the perfect environment to put their skills and relationship to the test:  COMPETITIONS!
Relationships: Crizant of the Anáptaw Clan | Charizard & Venn | Venusaur, Team RED & Zippo Saraf, Zippo Saraf | Charizard & Crizant of the Anáptaw Clan | Charizard, Zippo Saraf | Charizard & Kreetan Stillwaters | Blastoise
Series: Pwnyta's Peeps [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1459720





	1. Enter!  A Killer in a Half-Shell!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pwnyta](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Pwnyta).



> Based off of the Pokémon gijinka/personifications created by an artist of many names whose tumblr is Pwnyta (http://pwnyta.tumblr.com/) and whose twitter is Tony @BaWCatGod (https://twitter.com/BaWCatGod). As such, this AU is inspired by the Pokémon franchise but does not contain any individual characters from the franchise beyond the concept of the different Pokémon species, with few exceptions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another Competition, with some old friends and unpleasant Competitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: October 2, 2016. No beta.
> 
> Thank you, Erin, for drawing Conrad, Venn, and Criz for me! It really helped to propel the inspiration for the story along! And, as I said, this probably didn’t turn out half as good as you were expecting.
> 
> Chapter tags  
> Characters: Unnamed Psychic–types, mentioned — Ignatius Saraf | Charizard  
> Additional: Violence, Severe Injury, Blood, Stalker, Creep, Torture, Psychological Torture, Drowning, Panic and/or Panic Attacks, Anxiety and/or Anxiety Attacks, Near Death, Self-Harm, Attempted Murder

When he’d left ten minutes ago to browse the first floor’s market to kill his boredom, the situation hadn’t been near as bad as it is now. And Zippo, _the asshole_ , is still there as if nothing where wrong! “Damn it, Zippo! Don't sit that close to the door!” Kreetan snarls, trying to drag his partner from the small table he'd chosen. “You **KNOW** that it's not up to the task of holding up against whatever shit the other Competitors will pull!”

Zippo raised an amused brow at him but remained where he was, feet on the table and his tail resting in his lap, “Since when did this bother you? This is your favorite spot, after all.”

The battle arena they are currently in is a good site for Competitions. From the third story up, the arena is ringed with a few stories of open-air seating. Though the arena itself lacks a ceiling, the seating held plenty of indoor space underneath it for sponsors and vendors to set up shop. The area ringing the arena, though, is reserved for spectators, with wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor reinforced windows. While the second floor has many private rooms reserved for V.I.P.s, the inner ring of room on the ground level is one massive lounge for Competitors either waiting to be called out or waiting for the day's battles to be over. Unfortunately, the lounge is the only direct access into the arena, meaning wider spread moves used could possibly get into the lounge, especially liquid or gas attacks. As such, most people avoid the areas near the doors. Which also meant the only place in the entire lounge that a Competitor could sit in relative peace and privacy is right in the 'splash zone', as it is known as.

“Since that fucking numskull out there decided that his best bet was to fucking flood the entire arena!” He stalks to the door, careful not to splash the knee deep water too much. A dark glower aimed at the swirling eddies around the door and a glance out the window told him enough. The Surf the bastard used was still on its high tide; the arena's usual systems struggle to drain it. The surface is still a few feet above the top of their windows. The lounge will fill entirely if something isn't done.

Zippo hasn’t gotten wet yet, sitting how he is. The water is just a couple of inches shy of the underside of the seat. In a few more minutes, the water will be lapping at the top, soaking his pants if he doesn't move to a higher perch.

The idea of Zippo getting wet because of that moron in the arena pissed Kreetan off.

Kreetan's head wavered a moment as he, lost in thought, tried to decide what to do. Leaving the building is a forfeit, and he needed this money for his savings. On the other hand, this entire debacle is starting to put Zippo at risk. And he’s still sitting there all nonchalant. _Jackass_. Kreetan glanced at the door again, at the rising water, at the security cameras.

With a wincing shrug, he declares, “Fuck it.” The temperature drops rapidly as Kreetan flips a gun off his back, firing off a jagged beam of light blue energy at the door. _Ice Beam_. Small cracking and high pitched tinkling sounded in the air as the doorway and the water around it froze over.

“I'm not paying for that,” Zippo says, unfazed by his partner's outburst. The water level slowly dropped as it continued to spread across the tiled floor of the lounge and into the halls outside. With the shouts still echoing from further in the building, someone should be coming by soon to check the damage. Maybe.

Kreetan grimaces, “Better than it filling up the room. Other people probably had similar ideas for the other doors, or else the water in here would have been deeper.”

Zippo shrugs, eyes wondering back toward the TV. While the ground view of the battle was alright, aside from the sheer distance, it is times like this that proves how often their view of the battle gets obstructed. It is far easier to watch the footage from the HD battle cams on the TV suspended from the ceiling nearby. No larger than a softball, battle cams are free floating spherical drones capable of high speeds, levitating to find the optimal angles for the best viewing experience. With one per Competitor and two orbiting the battle, the technician team in charge of the broadcasted footage kept a smooth stream coming through, flipping between the points of action and at times splitting the screen to stream from two separate cameras. However, smaller monitors were stationed on the tables, allowing waiting Competitors to flip through any of the six battle cam footages at will. The broadcast is still showing an aerial, distanced view of the battle. With a sigh, Zippo readjusts to better view the monitor, commandeering another chair to prop his feet on. The water is still deep enough to drench his feet and shins if he sat normally, much to his irritation. The chairs are not comfortable enough for the odd reclining he's doing.

The Competition they were taking part in this time is typical for them to choose: double battles, tournament double elimination style, and strong opponents. The battle occurring right now is one of the last for the round and the day. Whichever partnership wins, Zippo and Kreetan will be facing them tomorrow, when the next tier and round of battles start; the semi-finals and finals are being saved for the third day.

Aside from the tactical advantage of watching the two partnerships, Zippo actually has a personal interest in one of the Competitors, a fellow Charizard. A unique bond of mutual respect and care, similar to that of healthy family relationships, is usually formed between Chars by virtue of their species, prompting many to refer to other Chars as kin regardless of any actual blood relation. But Zippo isn't just watching kin. He's watching a good childhood friend. Preferring to be called Criz, Crizant of the Anáptaw Clan, a member of Zippo's cohort, is fighting.

A cohort included all the Chars in a single age group of Charicific Valley apprentices; individuals of a cohort train together and usually remain within a few levels of each other as they grow. Due to living in roughly the same area, they often partnered up together in Charicific Valley during the Migration, forging a solid friendship but rarely seeing each other outside the Valley.

Zippo chuckled, finding Criz circling the flooded arena from above with his drenched partner, a Venusaur named Venn, dangling from his grip. From Venn's expression, he's probably griping about the flood, making Criz laugh in response. If Venn wasn't careful, he'll end up causing Criz to lose his grip and drop him back into the water. While the match wasn't ideal for a Charizard, it is fortunate for a Grass-type. They were pitted against a dangerous pair: a Blastoise by the name of Conrad and a Clefable named Claudio. Both were swimming within the water, not even conversing. They had tried attacking Criz and Venn before, but with Criz's speed and agility along with the distance provided by his flight, they resigned themselves to waiting for the water to recede to continue the match or else look like fools with how their attacks missed every time. The Blastoise should have thought before using such a powerful Surf in a vain attempt to take out Criz, no matter how narrowly it missed.

The water is only now starting to drain, at a slow pace. Zippo debated the wisdom of joining his team in their V.I.P. room upstairs, but putting Kreetan in a relatively small room with them sounded like a hefty fine and a prison stay waiting to happen. The room would be annihilated and the property damage extensive. They'd probably be disqualified from the Competition and be that much more likely to be denied when signing up for future ones. They already get looks and accusations due to Zippo's Champion title. No need to make it worse.

Both their gazes are pulled to the window as the water filling the arena pulled back in a sudden surge. Spotting the Psychic–type referees pulling the water out of the arena, Kreetan snarls, “‘bout fuckin' time,” before eyeballing the frozen door.

Zippo follows Kreetan's gaze, sighing, “I got it.” He stood, water lapping around his feet, only ankle high now but enough to soak into his socks. Out of reflex to the wet sensation, his tail pulls up, wrapping around one of his arms. Squaring off, he inhales deeply, sparing a glance at Kreetan who's watching with a small smirk and a look that just about shouts a griping _'show–off'_ at him. Zippo grins in return, a soft, slow exhale wafting around past his teeth, tiny tongues of flame following it. His eyes snap back to the ice as he opens his maw, scorching flames blasting forth with his breath. An explosion of steam envelopes the area, hissing as the ice melts, crackles, and breaks. In moments the ice is gone.

“> **WOW**! Did that Blastoise RIDE THAT SURF or WHAT? <,” the announcer's voice buzzed through the nearby speakers once again. “>NEVER have I seen one that powerful. But, it looks like the Blitz Duo is still holding out! The Charizard escaped into the sky before the Surf first hit, and his partner Venusaur withstood the onslaught with naught but wet clothes! <”

A low whistle. “That's impressive, even with his type advantage,” Kreetan peers back out the window. While Kreetan strains to make out the condition of the battlers, Zippo opts to just watch the broadcast. It only took a moment after the announcement for them to split the screen in two.

The Venusaur indeed survived the Surf mostly unharmed, panting and soaking. Criz carefully places him back on the ground, mud squelching up to Venn's ankles, before returning to the sky to circle above him. With Criz's departure, so too did Venn's lighter mood leave him, anger coiling in the tension of his muscles. A dark glower and rumbled, “>Cheap shot, you coward<,” toward the Blastoise is followed by a tense glance at Criz, who seems reluctant to get closer to the ground now that it isn't necessary. After almost getting caught in a Surf like that, Zippo completely understands.

The footage splits again, half the screen at a distance behind Venn and the other half focused on the Clefable absently smiling while chanting gibberish as his raised arms tick back and forth above his head. Both his pointer fingers where extended, glowing white. Zippo's eyes widened, “ _Oh, no . ._.” he breathed.

Kreetan, who'd been staring out the window with an increasingly uneasy feeling growing in his gut, jerks, leaping to his feet and twisting to survey the room. But there was no change that he could see, the closest Competitors sitting over twenty yards away from them. “What— what is it!?” He hisses at Zippo, twisting his head to look at him but otherwise keeping his body between their table and the rest of the room. _Something isn't right._ Kreetan knows, _knows_ with a deep certainty that he can't really explain. He doesn't know what it means, where it might come from, but knows it is bad, and that it's just their luck to be caught up in it. He relaxes when Zippo responds, nodding towards the TV. “Oh . . . ,” he blankly replies, before registering what he's seeing, “OH! Oh, _shit_ . . .” Kreetan sits back down, eyes still on the TV. “Hell of a desperate move. Or, seeing that fuckin' creepy smile, just a crazy gambler.”

The Clefable's arms sweep down, each hand now with extended thumbs to make finger guns. “>Bang <,” he grins, firing the finger guns and unleashing his Metronome attack straight at the Charizard. The burst of white light dissipates before it travels more than a handful of feet.

“. . . A dud, then? _Or_ a delayed attack . . .” even as Zippo speaks, the battle cams lurch downward before stabilizing. The Pokémon on the arena stagger as Criz hurtles down and lands nauseatingly hard on his legs, barely managing to flap his wings enough to soften the crash.

“> **HEY**! <,” Venn barks, rushing to Criz's side. The Charizard tenderly picks himself up, grasping Venn's shoulder for support as the Venusaur hastily checks his friend over, dusting him off. “>Come on, _talk_ to me man! Are you alright? <,” Venn's voice husks with tension.

“>Ye—yeah <,” Criz's face flushes. “>H—hey? I'm good now. You don't have to— Venn! <,” Criz's voice jumps pitch, high with embarrassment, and at the edge of the footage, Zippo and Kreetan could just make out the brief flare of the Charizard's tail. Though Zippo keeps watching the broadcast, Kreetan's eye catches on their table's monitor. Cycling through the streaming cams by default, Conrad was currently the one filling the monitor. Sickened, Kreetan frowns, lip slightly curled in silent warning despite knowing it's unseen by the other Blastoise. He adverts his eyes back toward the TV, trying to put the picture out of his mind. Why would anyone look so— so . . . hungry— lustful— demented? Was it coincidence that he looked like that right after Criz's tail flared up? He must have been seeing things.

His gut told him otherwise. He glances at Zippo, wishing for the first time that Zippo wasn't here with him, that he was instead safe at home. Zippo doesn't catch him staring, but Kreetan forces his eyes back on the TV regardless.

Venn pauses his inspection of Criz's legs to look up at him from where he's kneeling. “>I'm fine. <,” Criz's voice was soft, embarrassed, his wings hunching around him. Venn quietly stares hard at him a moment before slowly nodding, an easy smile spreading.

“>Awesome. <,” Despite the lightness of his tone, the camera is close enough for Zippo and Kreetan to see his tension, the way the shoulder pat Venn gives tightens and tugs Criz to stand just a bit behind him. “>Wasn't sure what I'd do without my wing–man. <,”

“>You would have gone on, Venn. You are strong, and . . . I'm not so important that you should do anything else. <,” Criz replies, shifting to the right as Venn shits to the left.

Venn's features drop hard and darken, “>Bull– _fucking_ –shit. _You_ are the _most_ important. <,” He rolls his shoulders, vines snaking around his arms ready to attack. Criz stays silent, casting Venn a look of soft concern, before refocusing on the battle. He has to work thrice as hard as normal to make sure he doesn't get trapped now that the gravity is too heavy to fly against. The most he can pull off with his wings in terms of movement is a speed boost; he'll need to be fully aware of his surroundings if he didn't want that to backfire, though.

“> _Awe_ , how _sweet!_ <,” Claudio, the Clefable, laughs. His pleasant smile turns vicious as he focuses his attention on Criz, “>You'd almost think he _actually cares_ about a vile, pasty fuckwit like _you_. You . . .<,” Much like Criz, Zippo stares aghast at the Clefable. Claudio's previously amiable and airy attitude has seemingly vanished, raw malicious hatred pulsing through his words. “>You are _nothing_ but a despicable burden to him. Nothing but _turtle–fodder_. <,” Conrad laughs, loud and hard, as he gives Criz a thorough, penetrating leer, eyes lingering on his tail flame. Intimidated and beginning to truly fear for his own wellbeing, Criz steps back, trying to put distance between himself and his opponents.

“>Don't listen to any of the shit coming out of their mouths! They're just tryin' to get in your head! <,” Venn snaps back, abandoning their strategy to plant himself in front of Criz. “>I won't let them get you or take you from me! <,”

Both Conrad and Claudio laugh boisterously. Zippo shifts in his seat uneasily, glancing at the door to the arena. Kreetan catches the movement, a thrill of blind terror stopping his heart for a moment. For that brief instant, he'd been certain that Zippo was going into the arena while that other Blastoise and the Clefable were still there. Zippo and he could probably take them, but . . . Those two . . . _psychos_ have far too much interest in that other Charizard; Kreetan abhors the way they keep eyeing the man up, especially his tail–flame. What's to say that Zippo wouldn't be a target as well? A powerful sense of impending doom echoed and trailed the thought.

“> _Why_ , little Grass seed . . . <,” Claudio smiles sweetly at Venn as he backs away from Conrad. The Blastoise begins to glow with a golden inner light, a blue energy force trailing after his hands as his arms, both outstretched to his left side, mimic water waves. “>What makes you think you have _any_ hope of stopping us? <,” Conrad's arms swoop in a downward arc as he pivots them to his right side to repeat the motion, the sound of agitated water resounding within the arena. The blue energy erupts and envelopes Conrad in a frenzied aura, suppressing and concentrating the golden glow until it glimmered only across his skin. An incomprehensibly colossal amount of water bursts from the earth.

In a flash, the arena is flooded again, the mud quickly swept up into the torrent and completely obscuring their window view. From what little Zippo could see through the murk, the water was traveling at extreme velocities. Some sort of massive whirlpool? The broadcast swapped to an aerial view, and sure enough, the arena is engulfed in a whirlpool beyond any scope Zippo's ever seen before. A jolt of fear and adrenaline flashes through him. He turns to their monitor, flipping through the feeds; he's only briefly distracted when a fresh wave of chilled water rolls over his feet, startling him. An ominous creak of straining metal fills the room as outcries from other Competitors sound from deeper within the lounge.

“ **FUCK IT**!” Kreetan leaps to his feet, Ice Beam already glowing within the barrel of his gun. Not a moment too soon. As the door wrenches outward, hinges tearing, Kreetan's Ice Beam hits the doorway, completely filling it with ice as water rushes inward. Only once the ice creeps over the walls and holds solid did Kreetan return to the table, muttering darkly, “Can't believe that _damn asshole_ . . . Zippo?” Kreetan calls, noticing Zippo's attention on their table's monitor. The chaotic swirling of murky water fills the screen. What's so interesting about that . . . ?

Reading the feed's cam ID, he realizes with a sickened lurch that the other Charizard hadn't escaped the devastating Water attack. “. . . _Shit_ . . .” Kreetan breathes, a hand falling on Zippo's shoulder in a vain attempt at consolation.

Zippo sits tense under his hand, waiting for the outcome. Criz is the smallest of their cohort. But what he lacks in power, he more than makes up for in speed and agility. Unfortunately, he also lacks endurance, unable to withstand as much damage as larger Charizards can. Being knocked around by so much water . . . Without question, Criz was out of the fight.

Zippo's just praying he'll _live_.

The referees must have realized the deadliness of the attack, or else were already expecting a second flood. The water level drops much swifter than previously. Zippo stares at the screen, barely sparing a glance to check on their progress. _Too long_ . . . It's taking too long. Criz's chances half with every second he stays under.

Conrad is on top of Criz when the water is finally drained, straddling the inert Charizard and pushing his face into the mud. Zippo stares blankly at Criz's tail, flameless and limp. He doesn't feel it as Kreetan's grip tightens on his shoulder.

Kreetan stares, stunned, at the screen. He knew death was always a possibility, that accidents happen . . . But _this_ wasn't an _accident_. They had trapped the Charizard on the ground, attacked with _far too much_ force, and now . . .

Zippo and he are fighting those . . . _butcherers_ next. Lightheaded, he tightens his grip to anchor himself. _How_ the _hell_ was he supposed to stop something like _that_ from happening to Zippo?

He couldn't.

Zippo is worth far more than a couple of pockets full of cash. He's worth more than Kreetan's pride. If that _fucking_ _psycho_ isn't disqualified, they are walking straight out and forfeiting.

“> ** _HEY!_** <,” A voice thunders, the speakers rattling. Venn regained his feet, charging across the arena toward his partner. “>He's already down! **FUCK OFF! LEAVE HIM _ALONE!_** <,” Before Venn could force Conrad off of Criz, he is blindsided by Claudio's Body Slam; knocked completely off his feet, he finds himself sinking into the mud, stuck under the Clefable. “> **GET OFF! _HE NEEDS ME_ , YOU _FUCKERS!_** <,”

Claudio chuckles, “>He's beyond help. <,” A quaint, satisfied smile drifts onto his features, “>I assure you, he's quite dead. Or, at least that fire of his is snuffed out. That's the same thing, though, isn't it? When it comes to Charizards and their _hell–spawn?_ <,”

“> _N-no_ . . . <,” Venn chokes out, tears pouring down his face. It echoes in Zippo's head, knocking what little breath he had out. A faint, desperate hope kindles; a rumor from his childhood.

If true, he only had moments. It might already be too late.

He scrambles from the table and runs almost headlong into the ice, forgetting its presence in his haste. Ignoring Kreetan's startled shout, he pulls forth raw leaknieh into his throat — to the point that it wells up and over the root of his tongue — and blows it out with such force that his intended Flamethrower edges into more of an Inferno. He incinerates the doorway, heedlessly ignoring the water pouring off the ice as it soaks his pants and the skin underneath. This amount leaknieh is too much for the attack and the pyrophoric fluid doesn't disperse into ignited miniscule droplets mid-air as it normally does. The excess leaknieh clings, sizzling, to the edges of the door and into the water as it continues to burn. He senses the Protect Kreetan throws up, shielding himself from the intense heat and splatters of leaknieh, but cannot spare the breath for an apology. As soon as the ice is thin enough, he smashes through it with a Mega Punch and takes flight, trusting Kreetan to follow him into the arena and guard his back. Too angry to warn the other Blastoise off of Criz, he knocks him away with a kick as he lands from his flight.

“Brother!” Zippo breathes, checking Criz for a pulse. _He can't — !_ Fingers pressing even harder into Criz's neck, Zippo still can't feel a pulse. With his own thudding heavily and his hands trembling intensely, he isn't sure if Criz's heart has stopped or not.

A looming _awareness_ prickles at the base of his neck.

He stiffens at the unknown presence at his back, wild eyes searching as he whips his head around and crouches with coiled muscles ready to strike. Battered and caked in mud, it is the Venusaur. Zippo's nose flares, excess fire billowing for a moment as he calms from the aborted fight instinct. Kreetan stands a handful of yards past him, facing off against the other Blastoise. Raw fury contorts Kreetan's face. He stands as a living shield, impassable and unyielding. The sight of Kreetan's proud, powerful back standing between Zippo and danger calms Zippo's fear, redirecting it into haste and concern. _Kreetan can handle them_ , Zippo assures himself, focusing on his trust in Kreetan rather than the brutality their opponents have displayed.

“I—is he?” the Venusaur manages through shallow sobs. _There is no time._

“CPR. _Now_ ,” Zippo orders, moving himself closer to Criz's tail. _It was **only** a mere **rumor**_ . . . He dismisses his doubts, reaching for the tail. It is faint, but there is still warmth within. Nervously, he sweeps his own tail around, wrapping it around Criz's by virtue of his Arbok blood; such flexibility is unheard of and unnatural in other Charizards. It feels appallingly intimate as the tip of his tail lays flush against Criz's. But if somehow the heat of his own flame will keep Criz warmer and that much more likely to wake up again, then he'll do it. Awkwardly scooting back a little, he inhales as if to breathe fire and holds it, forcing his mouth and throat to flood with leaknieh once more. This same super-heated pyrophoric fluid that ignites on contact with air, allowing for Fire–type attacks, also pumps through a Charizard and ties their life to their flame. Even with an extinguished flame, if a Charizard's leaknieh remains hot enough, they can still remain alive. But without a fire in the furnace gland at the end of a Charizard's tail, how was the leaknieh expected to remain hot? This is likely where the rumor sprang from. The idea is that a healthy Charizard can bleed out their own leaknieh directly into the furnace gland of a fallen one, keeping their system heated and alive, and hopefully in the process, the gland becomes stimulated enough to be provoked into reigniting. The more leaknieh Zippo can force himself to bleed out, the likelier this might happen with Criz's tail. He spares a brief second to make sure the Venusaur is actually performing the CPR. If they couldn't keep Criz's heart pumping and lungs breathing, then everything Zippo is about to attempt is moot–point. The leaknieh still has to circulate through the body for this to work, after all, and even with a burning tail, he still needs oxygen to survive.

Working through relentless tears, Venn's face is determined and arms forceful as he tries to instill his own life–force into his partner. Zippo is at once grateful for the Venusaur, not just for his obvious bond with Criz but also for being a Grass–type. Grass–types inhale carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen, making his efforts more likely to succeed than another type's would have. Feeling just a bit more confident about it, Zippo refocuses his attention to their tails. Gingerly lifting them, he notes Criz's tail hadn't reignited from contact with his own flame. It was a futile wish, but he'd honestly hoped he wouldn't have to do this next part. But if it'd save Criz . . .

Glad his own fire was hot enough to clean Criz's, Zippo gently puts the end of Criz's tail into his mouth, arcing his own tail flame away from his face. Rallying himself, Zippo rolls his leaknieh around, gathering a mouthful, before doing his best to force it through the pores and channels and into Criz's furnace gland. Zippo can only assume it works. He cannot feel any fires starting up around his hand, which would have happened if the leaknieh had escaped around the tail, and none flowed back down his throat or up into his nose. Into Criz's tail is the only place it could have gone. Relaxing his mouth, Zippo prepared to do it again. He had no room or time for embarrassment or disgust, no matter how strange or unnatural it felt and no matter their audience. For right now, _he_ was Criz's heat and fire, just as Venn was Criz's lungs and heart.

Zippo had been feeling distinctly chilled for some time, his vision gone spotty at some point, when he felt hands — Kreetan's hands — pull him away from Criz. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it; how much leaknieh he bled and gave. He felt hollow. Like something important was missing deep inside. Unable to gather the strength to resist Kreetan and unwilling to risk harm to Criz's tail, he eases it from his mouth, his own tail immediately laying flush against it once more to share its heat, to encourage the fledgling fire to strengthen — _if_ it is even _there_ in the first place.

Was it just Zippo's shoddy eyesight, or is his fire smaller than normal?

“ _Dammit_ , Zippo! Stop, _you're killing yourself!”_ He hears Kreetan's voice, dull beyond the rushing within his ears. And just beyond Kreetan, he could make out a sharp crack and other voices. There's a weight to the air. His legs and arms, wet from the mud, buzz strangely. Kreetan carefully guides him into reclining. His back comes to rest against Kreetan's chest, the Blastoise's legs framing his own as his head lolls against Kreetan's neck. Before he could ask about the other voices, something oh–so heavenly warm hovers against his cheek.

_A cup . . . ?_

Dazed, he follows the hand and arm holding the cup up to another familiar face. _Emanuel_.

“Drink it, Zippo. You'll need it to start replacing the fluids you lost trying to resuscitate your kinsman.” Zippo, numb, blinks up at Emanuel before accepting the cup and drinking from it. Scorching hot chocolate floods his mouth, his throat, and warms him at his core.

He twitches, hazily watching Emanuel kneel down and reach toward something; feeling gentle fingers trying to curl around his tail, it finally registers that Emanuel is trying to untangle it from Criz's. Zippo can't muster the energy to voice his protest. Grimly, he tightens his tail, going so far as to twist the end of his tail around Criz's; the strain triggers a sharp, bone deep jolt of pain. Something feels fundamentally _wrong_ about it. He's never coiled that part of his tail so tightly or sharply, barely dared to bend it at all. _It is dangerous_ , he remembers his father telling him. He can't remember why.

Emanuel tugs futilely at his coils. His fingers tremble against Zippo's skin. _Why?_ “ _Zippo_ , _for goodness sake_. You can't _honestly_ believe you can reignite his tail! It's the final, fatal step of a Charizard's death! _You can't just **UNDO** that!”_ Emanuel's voice is strained and upset, Zippo realizes through the haze steadily overtaking his mind. The greater part of Zippo's attention remains on Criz, though.

The Venusaur — Venn, the name drifts across his awareness — is still doing chest compressions, far more desperately than before. His harsh weeping forms a pattern, a litany of _“please, please”_. It's strangely compelling to watch, to listen to. He hopes Venn gets what he needs, Zippo vaguely thinks, wishing to help Venn. _He's so desperate_ . . .

“Zippo!” Emanuel grabs his chin, forcing his attention onto the Raticate. Kreetan's arms, wrapped around his upper arms and torso, tighten. Emanuel's voice exudes frustration and upset, but his face is so . . . _sad_. “You _have_ to let him go.” Emanuel gently says, voice hushing. His hands frame Zippo's face, cradling. “ _I know;_ it's hard. But you are killing yourself. Your fire can't burn properly when the end of your tail is coiled like that, and your core temperature is too low. You bled out too much leaknieh.” Emanuel's thumbs, warm against his skin, soothingly rub circles into his temples. Zippo leans into the contact. His mind drifts, detaching from reality. A warm, comforting darkness edges in around him, promising rest. Promising to remove the pain.

_Why is he hurting so much?_

“Do you understand, Zippo?” At the sound of his name, Zippo's awareness comes back around to focus on Emanuel. “You've done all that you could. _Let go_.” Zippo blinks again. His muscles relax. Emanuel's never led him wrong before. It _must_ be okay if it's Emanuel telling him to let go. _And Kreetan_. Kreetan is all around him right now. Zippo can feel him, smell him, and hear him, even if he can't actually see him. Kreetan is _safety_ . . . and _home_ . . . and . . . _here_. Kreetan won't let him fall, won't let him get hurt. Zippo melts further against Kreetan's support. He feels his tail being uncoiled from around . . . _something . . . by someone . . . ?_

Like a limb waking up, a rush of warmth and a painfully prickling wash of feeling radiates into his tail and returns into his body two fold. He draws a shuddering breath, shaking and cringing under the intensity as he becomes more aware.

He blinks wetly. Kreetan is rocking him, his eyes pressing into the top of Zippo's shoulder. Emanuel fusses with Zippo's tail, peering warily at it and uncoiling it as it painfully twists on itself in wretched spasms. _When had Emanuel come down from their team's V.I.P. room?_ Zippo tries to relax his tail, tries to stop it from twisting, but excruciating cramps seize him as he does, sending him retreating, pressing backward into Kreetan with a whimper.

Kreetan convulses, as if struck, and attempts to draw Zippo even closer, to curl even tighter around him. With wings squashed and trapped between them, Zippo should have felt claustrophobic, should be throwing Kreetan off in a panic, but it . . . _it's Kreetan_ , and Zippo's never felt safer. His breath is harsh and rapid — like Zippo's — against Zippo's shoulder, and his heart races, pounding against Zippo's wing.

Zippo's eyes drift past Emanuel's attempts to help his tail recover, falling on his kinsman. Venn still hasn't stopped, though his tears have, eyes wide and stunned as they took nothing in except Criz's face. Zippo finally feels his own eyes whelm, tears hot against his face.

He'd wanted it to work . . . _needed_ it to work.

Venn is blowing another breath into Criz when Zippo sees fire beginning to lick its way out of the channels at the end of Criz's tail. _Just the leaknieh he'd transferred seeping back out_ , his rational mind whispered. Leaknieh catches fire when exposed to air. _It means nothing_.

_It worked_ , his heart sings, still hushed and hurting.

_It means **nothing**_. His heart silences, hurt cutting even deeper and pain exuding further.

Zippo just adverts his eyes, head rolling a little down the slope of Kreetan's shoulder as he smothers the fledgling hope. _He's tired_. His head throbs and eyes burn. He can't breathe out of his nose, and his throat is tight and swollen.

He wants to go home and _sleep_. And _not_ wake up. Not until things are better.

He ends up staring at a stand-off occurring a handful of yards away, neck still limp and his head resting on Kreetan's shoulder. His team . . . and the two murderers. Lee's in the middle, calm tension rolling off of him and ready to leap to the others' aid, if need be. Sickle squares up against Claudio, who's smiling widely, _hungrily_ at Sparky. The weak lurch of his stomach is a pale reflection of the alarm he knows he should be feeling. That's how — that — Conrad was looking at Criz, before he —

_No. Refocus_.

His eyes find the Blastoise, regardless.

Sparky snarls at Conrad, who's . . . staring back _at Zippo_ with a smile and steely eyes. Even as Zippo watches, the Blastoise licks his lips and attempts a step. In a split second, the heaviness in the air violently shatters, cleaved by Sparky's Thunder with an earth-shaking, deafening crack.

The ground, a mere foot or so in front of Conrad, smokes, scorched. “Heh, _hah haaah_ ,” Zippo saw, more than heard, Claudio laugh. The Blastoise's form also shakes; his neutral smile had grown to a grin, a flash of teeth. He still stares at Zippo, eyes burrowing, ruthless.

Zippo manages to turn his head away, but the only other things to look at were Emanuel, who's trying to massage the muscle contractions out of his tail, and Venn . . .

Venn's shoulders quiver; his face presses into Criz's chest and hands knot into Criz's shirt.

_“. . . thank you, thank you, thank you,”_ the mantra, barely even a whisper of breath between violent sobs, drifts from Venn's hunched form. An icy warmth blossoms and prickles under Zippo's skin, eyes riveting on Criz. A tiny, fearful hope rapidly grows.

He barely dares to breathe.

An eternity and a moment pass. His fierce, consuming hope doubles back into an equally as fiercely consuming grief and loathing. Was he really so naive and _arrogant_ as to believe that _he_ , of all people, could _save_ —

Criz's chest expands a bare amount, independent of Venn's support.

_His tail — !_

Fire still smolders within the furnace gland, proof of its presence in the minuscule licks of flame dotting the end of Criz's tail and marking the pores of the channels. There was _no way_ leaknieh exposed to air would burn that long without additional fuel. It _couldn't_ be from Zippo's pathetic attempts. It had to be Criz's heart pumping his own leaknieh again, feeding his fire and producing the necessary signals to the brain that keeps a Charizard alive.

A fire that fragilely, frighteningly weak will go out again at any moment.

Adrenaline granting him strength, he wrenches his tail out of Emanuel's hands in his haste, startling the Raticate. _“Zippo!”_ Emanuel snaps even as his hands reach out to soothe. Zippo blinks spots out of his eyes, muscles going lax once again.

“N-no. _Criz_ . . . ,” Zippo struggles to vocalize. Emanuel's eyes tighten, his expression heavier, and hesitatingly parts his lips to say something. Zippo pushes on, though, cutting Emanuel short, “ _Please_ . . . Emanuel. Help him.” Zippo feels the tears beginning in earnest now. The dull headache grows to radiate across the front of his skull. . . . Criz probably won't even survive the transport . . . He's tired. _So tired_. _“Please,”_ Zippo whispers one more time before finally turning his face toward Kreetan, eyes and forehead pressing into Kreetan's bent neck.

Kreetan's own eyes still press into Zippo's shoulder. He hadn't responded or moved much at all, aside from the odd curling or tremble when Zippo shifted. _Withdrawn_. In his shell, Kreetan won't willingly move, trying hard to shield both Zippo and himself in the most fundamental and instinctive way he knew. Zippo was fine with it. Needed it.

_. . . home . . ._

Zippo pulls his tail into his lap, unable to keep it from dragging in the mud. Though his flame wavers, it stays as strong as it could, diminishing a small amount. His hands come up to hold onto Kreetan's arms, the only part of him Zippo can comfortably hold on to; they still wrap around his upper arms and chest. In response, Kreetan's feet shift a bit closer together, causing his legs to encase Zippo's just a little more.

They're going to have to be moved. Probably by a Psychic–type, unless they can find someone strong enough to lift the both of them. Surrounded by his team, though, Zippo didn't have to worry about what might happen. They'll keep them safe. Zippo's eyes slowly close as he watches Emanuel turn towards Criz, saying something. He hesitates a moment, clearly stunned to find Criz breathing on his own, before going into a flurry of action. As he fades, right as he surrenders to his exhaustion, he feels the faintest brush of feathers and fingertips across his tail before dry warmth encases it.


	2. Vigilant Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next segment of the Co-Competitors series. Find out the immediate aftermath of the previous story, Enter! A Killer in a Half-Shell!, and take a peek at what exactly the team’s security and safety member, Sickle, is doing about the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written: August 1, 2018. No beta.
> 
> Chapter tags  
> Characters: Hugo | Pangoro, Scarecrow "Crow" | Cacturne, Unnamed Union Operatives, mentioned — Alex Fergus | Machamp  
> Additional: Severe Injury, Stalker, Creep, Drowning, Panic and/or Panic Attacks, Anxiety and/or Anxiety Attacks, Near Death, mentioned — Self-Harm, Attempted Murder

Thick fog ghosts through the streets, coiling and twisting like wraiths in the shadows. He breathes slow and even. Not a muscle does he move. Not a noise does he make. Overlooking the street, he camps within the dark. Stray light seems ensnared in his eyes. Cold and sharp, they glint gold as they cleave through the shroud.

The stillness of this night hinders concentration. Stray thoughts flint in and out of existence. Once again, he finds himself contemplating the situation. Fortune has played an unsettlingly significant part thus far. For the safety of his team to hinge on a _mere quirk_ in this newest threat’s character . . . _Unacceptable_. With ties to his past — ties formed in the time **Before** — this threat could have been worse, had the threat recalled exactly with whom he now contends. As is, Sickle knows the extent of his enemy, knows the truth behind the Clefable’s pleasant facade, while the Clefable does not know him. To hold an advantage of such caliber so easily is no small stroke of luck. One that has spared the life of his teammates, for now. _It **vexes** him_. But only a fool would disregard or deny it.

Fools and naivety do not survive long in, or near, the criminal Underworld. With five such individuals to guard, he cannot afford any slips of his own. He accepts the whim of fate for what it is. Hones it to his advantage. Exploits it relentlessly. It may not be so kind a second time.

* * *

{Claudio Dolunaie. Clefable. Age: unknown. Professional murderer. Current employer: none. Family: Mother, father, and unborn sibling all killed by Dolunaie. Skills: deception, traps. M.O.: Lures victims into traps to torture and kill them. Noted vendetta against Fire-types. Favors battle experienced Pokémon as victims; suspected to be more drawn towards Electric-types or those with military training/battle experience.}

His original intelligence has been carefully updated. Not much has changed since Sickle first became aware of this threat, back when he was naught more than another lackey of a cruel and greedy syndicate. Before he met his team.

Dolunaie, a singularly demented individual, is infamous for being among the most twisted and torturous serial killers in the Underworld. Especially once he began to sell his hobby as a service, like a mercenary. Despite also serving in the syndicate with Sickle, they never interacted. Yet, he had not ignored Dolunaie’s existence. The original investigation, done for the sake of prudence, has been in Sickle’s database for years. In his arrogance, Dolunaie dismissed Sickle and discounted his abilities. An arrogance blind enough to ignore even the magnitude of Sickle's own infamy. In those days, the mere whisper of Sickle’s name was a rare risk, done only by the most skilled agents and only when concealed in the darkest shadows of the syndicate. That arrogance will be his undoing.

The file, kept up to date through loose tabs Sickle followed over the years, is standard for all potential enemies. It is as he has ever done. Yet, this compulsion grew exponentially once the team – his team – evolved into something . . . _more_. No longer were they a band of fighters on a quest for glory. No longer were they mere allies amid a battle nor even friends around a fire. _A_ _family_. **HIS** family. A concept he had only once, perhaps twice, dared to ponder as a child.

A fatal mistake, on his part, to let these fools in.

He never calculated a family as a part of his life, his future. How can something so unforeseen, so undesired, become so vital to him? An anomaly, at odds with his work and his very nature. He had not wanted a family. He does not comprehend how it came to be, how they managed to elicit such feelings from him. _And yet_ . . . Now that they have found him, now that he _has_ them . . . He will leap into _damnation_ – into the very abyss of the netherworld – if he ever lets something happen to them.

His device pulses silently. Posted around the perimeter, his subordinates hedge in the threat Dolunaie with the lesser threat of the Blastoise Conrad and establish a hazard zone. Nothing breaches the ring without them knowing of it. Sliding his device out and flipping it open, his eyes flicker over the screen. He feels his mouth twitch down at the edges, frowning for but a moment before he recovers himself. _A tic_. One of many that have manifested due to his team. An irritating tell that requires concentration to suppress. Concentration that he cannot always spare. The sole respite: it seems to only get triggered by the influence of someone in said team. In this instance: Zippo.

He passed the perimeter and entered the hazard zone. While not unforeseen, Sickle had put into motion plans to detain Zippo for quite some time. They fell through _. No matter_. He planned for this as well. He dismisses his subordinate's report, eyes darting to the north. His Pangoro, Hugo, is difficult to spot. Only by virtue of having assigned his post does he locate him, unable to truly see him amongst the darkness. He motions with a slim hand, signaling his departure from his post. The shadows shift minimally, concealing and flowing around Hugo as he moves to cover both his own and Sickle’s posts. The movement may as well have been from the shifting clouds obscuring the moonlight. Soft as a sigh, Sickle drops from his perch, gliding around the fringes of lamp light to land on the next building. Not ideal. He could easily be spotted in transit, but it will have to do. Should the threats make a move now, Zippo might get involved.

_Such a concept_ . . . His stoicism breaks once again with a twitch of a frown. That strange sensation of fog, condensing in his chest, once again arises, thickening the air in his throat and quickening his heart. A brief moment of _strangulation_. He dismisses it, wrestles it back into the corners of his mind – present but not consuming. A drive _powering_ his actions instead of _hindering_. His mind, once buzzing with unsorted thoughts lost in the fog, snaps back into order. The situation sprawls itself into a diagram within his mind; his absolutes form the key and framework of his plans. He _cannot_ allow Zippo to be caught in crossfire. Neither can Zippo learn of his activities here and feel the need to take action. Whether Zippo opposes Sickle’s decisions in this matter or not, whether Zippo fights against him or not, these are not the larger concern. The real issue here is that Zippo’s awareness of Sickle’s darker activities may very well pull the Charizard into this life of cloaks and daggers, shadows and secrets, lies and betrayal.

Such a notion is _intolerable_. No one in his team shall know the taint of the Underworld. Not if he can prevent it.

Finding the man is easy enough. His fire is burning high and bright, more so than normal. Anger fuels it. This was one of the calculated potentials of his arrangements, though it was one of the more unlikely. Something else must have upset him. Physically, he stalks down the sidewalk with a deadly grace, power billowing around him like a cloak. No hint of weakness is betrayed, aside from the fact that Zippo is not flying to his destination. There are several reasons he might choose to walk instead of fly. Not all of them involve injury. The uncertainty irks him. Zippo’s aura, though, is too powerful, too angry, too established for there to be a hidden injury. A small knot of tension, formed when he first saw Zippo’s description in the report, eases within Sickle. A sensation he has long since come to terms with, allowing it to occur without questioning it. Another tic developed by the influence of his team.

He silently tails the irate Charizard, keeping well away. Despite his naivety of the true cruelty of this world, Zippo is highly trained and has skills beyond Sickle’s knowledge. It will not come as a surprise if Zippo manages to sense him. Neither is he surprised when Zippo does not. All remains well until Sickle realizes where Zippo is going. Instead of continuing on his way through the hazard zone, he pauses at the same building Sickle has half of his current force watching.

A coincidence, Sickle’s mind fiercely insists the moment Zippo’s footsteps stop. Zippo withdraws one of his clenched fists from the pocket of his pea-coat. He is too far away to see what he has, but Zippo’s body language suggests he is reading something, likely a slip of paper. The tension from before comes back tenfold stronger as Zippo moves to enter the complex.

He did not plan for this.

He runs his data back through his mind, filtering for anything that could draw Zippo here. Aside, of course, for the obvious, _lethal_ reason. Surely Zippo is not stupid enough to confront either threat – the Clefable or the Blastoise – after witnessing what those two were capable of in the arena. Not without backup, at least, and _certainly_ not when the two of them would be _together_ and within an apartment complex running a _goddamn_ _Competitor's_ rental special. Places like this, along with hotels or motels, make plenty of income renting rooms to Competitors traveling from outside the city for the duration of a Competition. If Zippo intends to fight the threats, it could quickly turn into a riotous street brawl. His analysis pauses and diverts on that line of thought, recalling that Zippo’s kinsman and the kinsman’s partner – both travelers – had rented an apartment here. Both are in the hospital ICU at the moment, the Charizard comatose and the Venusaur sitting vigil. It is more likely that they are the root of Zippo’s presence here; an errand of some sort. Their quarters are on the fourth floor.

On the fifth floor, the threats lay in wait for the next two days, waiting for the Competition to resume. For when they will face Zippo and Stillwaters in the arena. He had planned on, if possible, eliminating the threats before that happened. Or before they lose their patience and hunt Zippo down, to do with him what they pleased without having to play to the limitations of a Competition. But with Zippo in the building . . .

Zippo’s honor will not let anything suspicious pass unchecked nor wrong go unchallenged. It had gotten him and his team targeted by Sickle’s former employers and what continues to occasionally get him in trouble. _Like now_. Sickle cannot enact his plans without a disturbance that would attract Zippo’s concern, his interference. From intelligence gathered, neither of the threats will pass the opportunity if they catch Zippo alone. If Zippo knew the threats were a mere floor away, Sickle knew the chances of Zippo simply walking away would be slim, especially as agitated as he is. Sickle does not have a disguise on hand, but a new plan tentatively forms that will work better without one anyway.

Just as he is about to move, a pulse of vibration from his device freezes him. A stilted sigh of irritation escapes through his nose as he reads the update. Sure enough, within moments he hears a voice shouting out for Zippo, stopping the Charizard at the threshold of the building to await the other’s arrival.

Had it been _anyone else_ , even their non-combatant Emanuel, Sickle could have let them continue on their own. Could have stood sentinel, confident in the knowledge that they could adequately defend themselves. But it is perhaps the _only_ other Pokémon in their team that is in an equivalent amount of danger from the threats as Zippo is. Through their history, Dolunaie and Conrad have each shown a marked preference for certain Pokémon types and a skill set specialized in capturing them. Just as the Blastoise Conrad prefers Fire-types like Zippo, the Clefable Dolunaie seems to prefer Electric-types like Sparky.

Now both Zippo and Sparky are walking into the building, into the reach of the enemy, into the jaws of death. In truth, there is but _one_ acceptable course of action now. He drops from his perch and steps out of the shadows.

_“Hold!”_ He barks out the command, arresting the attention of both his teammates and his subordinates. Only the latter know better than to comment on his actions, even as they realize that the order was not for them and shift to tighten the perimeter. He trained them well.

His teammates, on the other hand, startle as they jerk around to face him. The agitated crackling of electricity and fire thrum in the air between them like deadly growls. Encased by the dark of the night, they both glow. Golden tinged light arcs from Sparky’s cheeks, dancing across his skin to nestle in his hair or to concentrate in his fist. A sinister reddish-orange hue blossoms at Zippo’s collar bone, brightening at the center as the edges spread up his throat. It flares suddenly with an exhale, small tongues of flame licking at the ragged edges of the breath, before it dims once more. Their reflexive aggression fade with their glow as they recognize him.

“ _What the **FUCK**_ , man?! Are you _deliberately_ an asshole or is it inherited?!” Sparky snarls at him. Sickle does not respond, aware of Sparky’s methods to – what he believes will – regain control of a situation. Here, Sickle normally expects Zippo to either try to smooth the tension over or otherwise make his own opinion known, verbally or not. But Zippo, in his current angry disposition, says nothing and does nothing, silently staring Sickle down. That, in of itself, grates on Sickle’s instincts as an intent, as a threat, as an insult. Like a balm, rationality soothes the instinct and prevents it from returning aggression with aggression. After all, Sickle is fully aware of Zippo’s state and had already calculated this reaction from the Charizard before he revealed himself. Had, in fact, likely _contributed_ to it.

“I will accompany you,” Sickle states, giving no opening for dispute. Sparky bristles, presumably about to demand an explanation to Sickle’s sudden appearance, but Zippo’s tail abruptly lashes away from them, a flare of fire leaping high into the air. It burns out before long, the heat rolling over the three of them as it disperses. It did not seem like any sort of intentional message to either Sickle or Sparky. Threats like that were not Zippo's modus operandi; he rarely, if ever, attempted intimidation via overt displays of aggression. No doubt, the lash was instinctive, to protect them from being burned as his fire flared with his temper. It did serve as a reminder, though, like the tell-tale of an Ekans’ rattle. Zippo is angry and dangerous right now. Not to be trifled with or irritated further. And if Sickle concentrates and squints just enough to see past the brilliance of the fire, the tip of Zippo’s tail is shaking, vibrating as if to rattle. One of Zippo’s inherited tics, betraying the true depth of his ire.

Sparky calms. His body language shifts to placate instead of instigate – not out of fear of Zippo’s anger, as is typical of other Pokémon when faced with an irate Charizard, but out of empathy. Sparky knows Zippo’s anger and knows Zippo dislikes acting on it, because of it. There are reasons that the two have been friends for so long, this being one of them. “Alright, let’s just grab the stuff and go back, alright? I’m sure they don’t have much stashed in here,” Sparky declares, aborting his attempt to reach out to touch Zippo. Sickle nods, shifting to take rearguard as they enter the building. As he passes the threshold, the shadows around the building waver. A leaf, attached to a slim twig, slides into the moonlight, against the wind. Behind it, two points of onyx gleam.

Sickle does not react to his subordinates’ unease. They will all remain in formation, ready to take action, whether they like it or not.

“Venn canceled their reservations here, so we’re grabbing their luggage,” Sparky explains, filling the quiet. “Since Kreetan’s place is sorta close to the arena, he’s willing to keep their stuff there so they don’t hafta pay rent on an apartment that neither are gunna be using anytime soon. They don’t got that kinda spare cash.” Zippo remains tense, silent in the front as he leads them to the elevators. The quiet thickens as they wait. Sparky fidgets with his device as Zippo watches the indicator above the door. Thus distracted, Sickle slides out his own device, completely silencing it and activating his ear piece. The soft murmur of one of his scouts fills his ear. The report is directed to Hugo, as expected once Sickle made himself inaccessible when revealed to his teammates. None of his subordinates question the abrupt departure from the plan, though only Hugo is aware of the truth behind his move. _Good_. He trained them all well. The elevator stops and opens with a groan.

The silence is sharp and unyielding within the elevator, the air stifling, weighted by the heat of Zippo’s anger. In the time it takes for them to arrive to the fourth floor, the perimeter is breached by four more civilians. The situation on the fifth floor remains stable. Hugo, however, is no longer being subtle. His low murmur is flat as he handles the others. Whatever emotion overwhelmed him enough to sway him into betraying his position was no longer detectable. At least, not _vocally_. Sickle has worked with the man more than long enough to read the intent of his actions. His orders subtly shifted the operatives until their surveillance formation morphed to resemble a strike formation. No doubt, the other senior operatives in field have picked up on Hugo’s intent as well.

Sickle, after all, does _not_ tolerate _incompetence_.

Despite this, they offer no remarks to Hugo. Telling in of itself, it can only imply that they agree with the Pangoro. _Sentimental fools_. He is capable of meeting his foes head-on and surviving, with or without reinforcements. He will reprimand them after the situation has stabilized.

The elevator opens with a cool surge of air, easing the stifling haze rolling off the Charizard. Zippo glides out the elevator, leading them through the halls. “It’s a bit into the building,” Sparky says, keeping pace with Sickle instead of attempting to somehow calm Zippo.

Sickle nods. He had suspected so. One of the rentals without a window. Cheaper for the occupants but also difficult to monitor. Difficult to escape. Difficult for reinforcements to reach them.

His earpiece is silent as his subordinates eavesdrop on him. He keeps the line open, letting them. They will need as much information as possible – information he will not be able to directly inform them of with his teammates within hearing range.

Sparky nods towards Zippo, “He’s been like that ever since he came out of shock.” Sparky’s stoic demeanor slowly slips from his control, growing darker and angrier as he remembers.

Outwardly, Sickle remains largely unmoved. In truth, he finds it difficult to refrain from immediately ordering the damnable Blastoise’s and Clefable’s deaths.

* * *

Kreetan had withdrawn so deeply into himself, it was impossible to rouse him. Zippo, while his eyes would, at times, open, also remained unresponsive – in shock from having given his kinsman too much leaknieh. They were unable to pry the two apart without risking harm to one or the other. Luckily, Alex was there as well, having come with Lee, and was more than strong enough to lift both Kreetan and Zippo once he utilized his secondary arms. They considered having a Psychic-type levitate them out and to safety, but Sickle vetoed it. There was not a Psychic-type alive he trusted with Zippo’s well-being while he was so vulnerable. The Machamp, however, was a known variable – an ally who loved Lee far too much to ever consider harming one of the team.

It was not until the next day that they came back to themselves. Zippo, having recovered some leaknieh through the night, was the first to stir in the hospital bed. He remained curled in Kreetan’s hold, unwilling to leave its warmth and safety. Despite that, he willingly ate and drank what they passed to him. As he recovered more warmth and energy, so did his activity increase, speaking and moving more. This slowly drew Kreetan out of his shell. Merely watching the room at first, he shifted only to hold Zippo closer once he realized they were not alone. His responses were absent or minimal, even when Zippo spoke to him. Zippo himself did not seem worried or impatient – a waiting game, he said. Force would only push him back into the Withdraw. A few hours pass before Zippo successfully coaxes Kreetan into verbally responding. The turning point. Once he started speaking, he rather quickly regained his senses. Within the hour, Kreetan was finally able to ease his guard enough to let Zippo go and not panic at the Charizard’s distance and vulnerability.

Looking at Zippo, the Charizard preferred for it to have happened sooner. Smothering of that caliber was grating when he was in his right mind and at least somewhat healthy. Despite his discomfort, he cared for Kreetan too much to rush him through recovering – to deny him the comfort and reassurance such contact gave him. In such a state, it seemed to be the only way for Kreetan to believe that Zippo was safe, was still _alive_.

For the team, Kreetan’s recovery was a mixed relief. Zippo was free to move and tend to himself now, despite still having a low leaknieh volume and thus a compromised immune system. He was also free to turn his attention to the one subject they have been avoiding while he was trapped.

“Where is Criz?”

* * *

Zippo stops in front of a worn door, well within the center of the floor. Sickle’s agitation is tightly restrained as he examines the dim, narrow hall. Missing and rotting ceiling tiles expose flimsy vents and faulty wiring, the dull roar of the air condition rattling loose screws. The wallpaper hangs – pathetic, torn, and stained – revealing patches of mold. The faux wood paneling on the floor is warped beneath his feet. A faint scent of decay drifts from the walls. There is no window in sight, the hall splitting dozens of yards away in opposite directions, leaving the entire area dependent on the failing, exposed bulbs mounted to the walls. Without security cameras to hack, there is no real way for his subordinates to confirm his location. The risk has increased beyond his calculations.

“This,” Sickle remarks; the quiet report from one of the Rho division, his watch dogs, silences, “is not _‘a bit into the building’._ This is the center of the floor.” The implication this has on Hugo's transparent plans for that strike formation leave a bitter wake. By the time any of the posted Sigma members – the raiders – can reach them, the damage will be done.

“Could’ve been worse!” Sparky grins. “The building could’ve been falling apart. The room could’ve been underground.” The former, Sickle dismisses. The building _is,_ in fact, falling apart. The latter, he concedes the point but not the argument.

“It is bad enough. Flying-types typically do not tolerate such cramped arrangements,” he replies. Even he, who rigorously trained to be rid of such issues, nearly sneers at the idea of being confined in such a place. A small sigh crackles in his ear; Hugo’s low voice orders the Sigma posted at the inner perimeter to relocate closer to the building. Not that it will help their response time any. If Hugo continues like this, Sickle doubts his other subordinates will remain silent. It is unprofessional; he should not reveal his worry so blatantly. “I am surprised Anáptaw tolerated it enough to sleep here.” Especially if the Charizard shared Zippo’s disposition in regards to small cramped spaces. And, if the majority of the apartments are as difficult to access as this one, then Sickle was fortunate, yet _again,_ that the threats obtained an apartment along one of the many outside walls of the complex, just close enough to the edge to have the single window his subordinates are watching them through. Otherwise, he would have to risk bugging the apartment – far too dangerous for him to send in anyone but his elite. Even if the bugs were successfully planted without casualties, the likelihood Dolunaie would spot them was above 90%.

“Well, like I said: they don't got the spare cash for luxuries like space 'n' windows,” Sparky rolls his shoulders, stepping up to Zippo’s side.

“>Movement from threat: Blastoise <,” the sharp report cuts through the radio silence.

“>Sigma, close in and hold. If either threat moves off the fifth floor, neutralize ‘em <,” Hugo’s voice is deceivingly calm, gravelly and deep as opposed to his usual husky whisper. _They will not make it in time._

Sickle’s neck prickles, keenly aware of his teammates’ and his own vulnerability here, in the cramped hall.

Zippo finally, gingerly, opens the door, mindful – even neck deep in his ire – of his erratic flame. “Venn said all of their things are on the dresser,” Zippo says, tension bleeding out just a bit. Helping his kinsman, in any manner, seems capable of mitigating his anger, if only marginally.

Sickle takes note of it. Wrath born of helplessness is common for any member of the team to feel at times. However, compounded on top of Zippo’s existing stress, it could make the Charizard snap, despite Zippo’s natural calm.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Sparky steps around Zippo. “Sooner we get out of here, the sooner you can check on your cousin, or whatever he is to you,” Sparky pauses. The single bulb, dangling from exposed wire at the center of the room, flickers on, buzzing. There is one door hanging crooked off its hinges, likely the bathroom. Against one wall is a table with a microwave. Two beds with threadbare sheets take up the majority of the space, a poor excuse of a ready-to-build dresser between them. The apartment is overall tiny, shabby, but tidy. The peeling wallpaper is ripped away, leaving patches of it, but the result is significantly better than the hall. Sparky eyes the sheets skeptically, glancing at the ragged carpet – a questionable brownish yellow, with strange stains near the beds – beneath his feet. His gaze drifts upwards and stills on the ceiling – rot stained, sagging, but remarkably whole. His pointed frown draws Sickle’s attention. “Besides, this place is givin’ me the creeps.”

Whether it is the Raichu’s instincts warning him, a previous knowledge of the threats lingering above, or simply the atmosphere of the entire apartment complex, Sickle does not know – nor does he question it. He will take any help ushering his teammates away from danger.

“Agreed,” Sickle replies, moving toward the right and searching for any personal affects that might have been misplaced. Both Sparky and Zippo focus on the single dresser, pulling duffel bags off the ground. They are quiet as they repack the items scattered across the top and stored in the drawers.

“>The threat is preparing to leave! <” The report comes in from a Sigma operative.

“>Boss <,” Hugo’s voice is tense.

“Steady,” Sickle replies, under his breath. There were not any items in the miniscule bathroom or in the rest of the room, save for the dresser.

“>Threat is moving out of the apartment <,” the same operative reports, voice rigid. Sickle debates. If he could stall Zippo, he would. But with this level of volatility from the Charizard, it would be to court disaster. At this rate, they will be running straight into the unstable Blastoise.

“> _Boss_ <,” Hugo calls again. Sickle knows the other man wants to order the Sigma raiders to enter the building and take out the threats. A move like that is far too reckless. Too much potential damage to property, bystanders, his subordinates, and his teammates.

“Steady,” Sickle repeats, unyielding, as he hands objects off the dresser and towards Sparky to pack away.

“What?” Sparky asks, catching Sickle’s remark. Sickle’s eyes flicker towards Zippo and rests there a moment before holding Sparky’s stare. Sparky’s eyes copy his, a grimace flashing across his face. He nods, accepting the gesture as an answer. Zippo remains silent, focused on neatly packing the last items from the drawers.

“Location,” Sickle demands under his breath, pulling away from his teammates under the guise of picking up a fallen object.

“>Leaving the vending machine, towards the eastern elevators <,” his operative reports. Sickle swallows a curse, noting his teammates’ direction as they leave the apartment.

“Hugo,” Sickle murmurs, falling back just enough to not be heard. A warning and permission in one.

A tense silence fills the communicators. “>Divert him <,” Hugo decides, the order implicitly directed to the Phi operatives, the undercover moles, within the building. Not _quite_ what they are trained to do, but it remains a possibility that they prepare for. “>No combat <,” he adds. Even a division as combat forgoing as the Phi have members who are more battle-happy than was wise.

Zippo and Sparky were at the elevators, Sickle a handful of steps behind them, watching the number tick down as the elevator descends.

It pauses on floor five. The communicators are silent.

Sickle shifts, sliding smoothly closer to his teammates with his hands casually resting on the hilts of his blades.

Zippo’s focus remains inward. Contemplating his kinsman’s situation or meditating on his own anger, Sickle does not care to know. Either are a distraction they cannot afford, if the threat manifests before them.

Sparky, however, notices the faux casualness of his stance, tensing at the subtle battle-readiness coming from him. In response, Sparky moves the bag from his side to his back, taking up Sickle’s left flank.

The elevator finally moves again, descending to their floor. The Phi operatives still have yet to report.

The elevator creaks as the doors shudder open. The man inside glances up at them, gold irises eerily stark against black sclera, before returning to his device and continuing to text. Sickle slides into the elevator, placing himself between the man and his teammates. Near-silent, the man’s device vibrates as he sends the text. He slides his device into his pocket, careful not to brush against Sickle and leave thorns in him.

“>Diversion succeeded. The target’s path has altered to enter the other set of elevators<,” the calm voice of an operative reports after a moment. The elevator jerks as it reaches the ground floor. Zippo, having entered last, glides out, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the duffel. Sparky edges out, side-eyeing the silent, still man in the corner of the elevator. Sickle follows, deceivingly relaxed. The moment his teammates’ backs turn, Sickle faces the man, giving a sharp nod. Dismissed, the man disappears deeper into the building, returning to his post.

Sickle follows his teammates out the building, finding them lingering near the door, waiting for him. Sparky glances back into the building, frowning. “He isn’t gunna _stalk_ us, is he?” A natural concern, given the species of the dismissed man.

“No. Let’s go,” Sickle replies, trailing Zippo as they leave Sparky behind. They have a mere handful of minutes to put distance between their group and the building before the threat may exit. They will have to be beyond the threat’s senses by then if Sickle is to be successful in this entire endeavor.

“ _Hey!_ Wait for me!” Sparky shouts, scrambling to catch back up. Just as Sparky passes him to fall into step beside Zippo, Sickle discerns Conrad stepping out of the building, head turning towards them. Every sense sharpens to hypersensitivity, waiting, even as Sickle stifles any outward sign of noticing the threat. His communicator crackles softly. With the final sound of Hugo’s order, white fog swamps the street behind them before the threat could identify them.

“>Mist.<”

Sickle turns away. The situation will hold until his teammates are escorted back to the hospital.

Hugo knows how Sickle operates, after all.


End file.
